


the anatomy of being grey

by afraidtofall



Series: twitter requests [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Blindness, F/F, M/M, Major Character Injury, Service Dogs, Slow Burn, to be added to as chapters continue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 15:02:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4064362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afraidtofall/pseuds/afraidtofall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An attack leaves upcoming volleyball star Oikawa Tooru confused and dazed and suffering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the anatomy of being grey

**Author's Note:**

> sad iwaoi + dog,  
> a request for twitter user sugakoushit
> 
> well this fic has officially turned into a monster, and this is just part one of many. character relationships mentioned will be featured more prominently, as will other characters that haven't been introduced. there's a lot more to come.
> 
> some minor warning for depressing thoughts.

** Monday, October 6 **

“Sugawara-san says you haven’t been sleeping well.”

“He’s not wrong.”

“Would you like to talk about the possibilities of why?”

“You give me the option, but it’s not an option. Won’t you make me do it anyway?”

“Patient comfort is a priority of mine.”

“Sometimes I think I can feel them standing behind me even if I’m laying down. Sometimes my head hurts too much for me to sleep. The painkillers don’t seem to work very well anymore.”

“And your eyes?”

“Every day gets a little blurrier. That scares me too.”

Shimizu Kiyoko breathes in through her nose and then out of her mouth. She’s quiet, and Oikawa likes that about her. He’s not sure what he would do if she were as approachable as the receptionist. Yachi means well, he guesses, but even with his eyes unfocused he knows she’s got this awful habit of staring. It’s uncomfortable because he doesn’t want to be seen like this, part of his forehead pressed together in an ugly jagged line, a bandage wrapped around to keep the stitches from getting infected, and tears that constantly pool against his lashes even when he doesn’t mean for them to. Oikawa touches his nose and waits.

“Have you considered the service dog even a little?” Kiyoko is ruffling through her papers again. Oikawa hears it more than he sees it.

“I absolutely hate dogs,” Oikawa says. He’s said it for the past two visits, and he’s still not changing his mind. “A service cat would do better.”

There’s a sharp breath through Kiyoko’s nose. She’s trying to not laugh, which is fair. No one should laugh at a man slowly losing his sight, his job, and his beauty all at once. She pauses on a particular page of notes and plays with the edge of it.

“Sugawara is afraid you’ll be alone when he leaves for America and he thinks a dog would be good for you,” she says. She sounds unusually fond, and it’s unfair.

“Kiyoko-chan,” Oikawa says, “I think I’m afraid of dogs more than I am going blind.”

She leans back in her chair and chews on the tip of her pen like she’s thinking hard about something. Oikawa stares at her beauty mark while it fades in and out of existence. The more he concentrates on it, the more his eyebrow throbs. His eyes even take to watering a little. It’s one of the things that sucks about being beaten with a bat. He pushes both hands against his eyes to stop them from burning and ignores that when he puts his palms back down, he has to wipe tears on his pants. If Kiyoko notices, she doesn’t say anything. Oikawa is grateful for that.

He hates that she brought up a good point.

With Suga going to America, he’s going to be painfully alone for the next few months. There’s a business opportunity out there (by the name of Sawamura Daichi) and even though Suga _did_ ask if it would be okay, Oikawa still feels unnecessarily bitter about life. Before, Oikawa would have had something to occupy his time like traveling with Japan’s volleyball team from city to city to play side by side along his friends, but now he’s washed out like an old man, like _garbage_ , and he doesn’t like how that sits in the empty pit of his stomach.

“I can’t remember his face,” Oikawa blurts out. It’s something to take up the empty air between them. “I don’t think I knew him. Kuroo and I were out getting drinks, celebrating – we’d won.”

“Is this your dream, Oikawa-san?”

“I can hear him asking me if I’ll take a picture with him,” Oikawa continues like she hadn’t interrupted, “and he gets mad when I say no. Kuroo tells him to back off but he – oh damn, I’m not sure where he got the bat.” He tries to keep the wobble out of his voice, insert some of that sparkling personality that has won him affair after affair, but he bobbles. “The police should really start asking baseball players why they have a vendetta against me. It was almost a homerun.”

Kiyoko touches her pen to her notebook and distractedly begins moving her pen. Oikawa hears it more than he sees it, which is comforting because he can pretend the coarse sound is a bug flying next to his ear rather than a statement being drawn. He touches his eyebrow again and waits for her to finish. He hasn’t been able to separate his nightmare from reality for a while now, and even though he doesn’t have to be in the hospital anymore, he still wishes he was. At least at the hospital he’d had someone stand at his door to protect him in case the man came back to finish his panicked job. Suga doesn’t stay in his room because Oikawa laughed and told him that would be weird, but Oikawa’s good at lying and he’d thought Suga would be refreshing enough to see through his clumsy display of bravado. The fly finds a place to rest.

Oikawa blinks to clear his eyes from the flimsy film that starts to crawl there if he keeps them open for too long and remembers it’s weird to pet his bandage like he does. He sits on his hands. Kiyoko screws her mouth up while she tries to find something to say. There’s another awkward silence.

“I want the dog,” Oikawa says. “I’m still scared of dogs, of course, but I’d like to have one.”

“We can get you a dog,” Kiyoko allows. Oikawa probably imagines the curve of a smile on her lips. “I’ll go ahead and call today. Pull some strings. Would that be fair?”

He doesn’t say that he’s going to be ten times more afraid with Suga gone, because she probably knows. Kiyoko is good, because even when she’s quiet, she’s supporting him, rooting for him, and he’s not entirely alone in this mess.

“Yes,” he says. “That would be fair.”

 

 

** Wednesday, October 8 **

Oikawa wakes up in the morning with an extra cold sweat and a memory of a gruff voice in his ear, but he doesn’t let that deter him from going about his daily routine. The dog is supposed to come today with some extra help to ease him into having one. While his eyes still work, they _are_ fading. At least that’s what Chikara Ennoshita had told him after inspecting the damage done to his face that night coupled with testimonials of scans. Oikawa isn’t letting that thought bother him much. He still has his eyes at least for now. It’s the depth perception he misses.

It’s hard to cook when an object seems close, but then far away. He gets his arm on the skillet a few times and nearly drops two glasses when trying to prepare the table. His hip knocks into one of the dining chairs too hard and sends it crashing to the floor. He was never beauty or grace before the attack, but he’d never woken Suga up by being a hot mess before and there’s nothing worse than feeling like an absolute criminal when his best friend slouches out of his room and into the dining room rubbing his cheeks tiredly.

“Do you want any help?” Suga asks delicately.

“No,” Oikawa responds easily.

Suga’s kind enough to let him do that, or maybe he just hasn’t woken up yet to take over from the bottom of his heart. Oikawa finishes setting the table and goes back to trying to cook dinner and feels Suga’s eyes on his back for the duration of it, but Oikawa’s finally getting the hang of things even when he regrets his decision to start cooking in the first place.

“Do you know the name of the person who’s coming to help today?” Oikawa slides Suga’s eggs and bacon onto his plate, and then his. “With the dog, or whatever?”

“Iwaizumi Hajime,” Suga replies. He does get up to get his plate and carries Oikawa’s too just because he doesn’t want it to drop after he worked so hard to make it. If his food is burnt, he doesn’t really complain. “He’s only a couple of years older than us, and he’s one of the trainers. He’ll get the dog used to you, and you used to needing a dog.”

“Ugh.”

“I know,” Suga says. He holds Oikawa’s seat out for him and ruffles his hair when he’s situated before joining him at the tale, pressing his thigh against his comfortingly. “On the bright side, he’s a hunk. Want to see his picture?”

Oikawa smiles despite himself and presses his lips firmly together until the urge goes away. “Why, you’re almost a married man. What would Sawamura-chan say?” He wiggles his fingers at Suga regardless and listens as he unlocks his cellphone.

“In this case, I think Daichi would agree,” Suga says.

Oikawa feels the phone in his fingers and peers at it. His eyes dance between a flurry of absolute nothing, and finding comfort in that tanned skin. The screen is blindingly bright even dimmed and he passes it back to Suga without really knowing just what he’s in for to know, but this Iwaizumi is coming later in the afternoon and _that’s_ enough to keep Oikawa curious. His eggs taste burnt when he puts his mouth on them, and he regrets even having tried cooking in the first place. He’s glad Suga doesn’t complain. He really is a good friend.

❖

Oikawa hates dogs and has since he was a little boy riding his bike and being chased by a poodle that had gotten loose of her leash. Unstable and on wobbly wheels as it was, it didn’t take long for him to crash and burn and for her to jump on top of him and start snapping her jaws at him. She’d been old, going blind from cataracts. Her owner tried to justify it to Oikawa’s parents, saying that he must have frightened her when he sped by on his bike, but he’s got a ring of teeth around his arm still from where her bite scarred and he hasn’t been interested in being around dogs since.

Suga, on the other hand, absolutely adores dogs in all shapes and forms and used to _babysit_ them for people in the neighborhood before college came around and they were forced to look at real jobs. He used to have his own dog, a large Grey Hound that he’d eventually had to be rid of because college dorms didn’t allow pets and his parents didn’t have the resources to take care of her (and as for the little girl who had bought Bessie, she sure was happy.)

That’s why Oikawa thinks this is ironic. He doesn’t wish their roles were reversed, not really, because that would be hateful and no one deserves to have their face slammed in for – for – for _whatever_ it was, but if anyone deserves to have a pet, it really was Koushi. After all, it’s Suga that’s the one fussing over the apartment to get it ready and dog friendly, and Oikawa is doing his best to not get in the way of anything by staying seated on their couch with his feet tucked beneath his thighs, and switches constantly between channels.

The issue with this is that he’s constantly reminded of the attack. The news has been playing it nonstop, because who attacks a famous volleyball player without consequences, except whoever did? Oikawa rubs his eyebrow in response. It was weeks ago, but there was no new details that could place anyone at the scene even with an interview from Kuroo. The bartender is reported to be a more reliable source. He says they were unreliable. That they’d been _drunk_ , and _rowdy_ and _dizzy_ from their win. Neither of them could remember the face, except the only one who can safely escape from that night without any real repercussions. Kuroo can forget.

The current station is playing a statement from some lawyer hoping to get on his case. A star volleyball player well within his career with an apartment near the top of one of Tokyo’s snazziest complexes is a great way to start a brand new defense career, but Oikawa has no idea why so many people are clamoring for _his_ dick when they should be busy looking for the person who tried to murder him. There’s some lame debate going back and forth between the current reporter and the lawyer has some pretty good points.

“But Oikawa is a known ladies’ man, and this wouldn’t be the first time he’s flirted with a taken woman,” the reporter says with a small laugh, like there’s something hysterical about being accused of debauchery. Oikawa rubs his eyebrow something furious.

“Being a lounge lizard doesn’t really give anyone the right to _assault_ someone!” the lawyer says. It’s a heated response, and while there’s composure, Oikawa thinks he might see some redness over the bridge of his nose, but that just might be his own anger. “Being drunk is not a reason to knock someone out _with a baseball bat_.”

Suga stops messing around in the kitchen, at least that’s where Oikawa thinks he is, to slam something down loudly. “This is bull, Tooru!” he says. His feet sound heavy on the floor and he flies into a rage once he reaches the room. “She doesn’t even know what she’s _talking_ about!”

“I don’t remember flirting with anyone,” Oikawa says. He sounds really small even to himself. “But then again, I don’t remember much of anything.”

He smiles at Suga.

Suga doesn’t smile back.

“It’s bull,” he repeats. He jams his finger into the TV to turn it off and wraps his arms around himself. He breathes in and breathes out, and looks at Oikawa somewhat tenderly. “She can’t blame you for getting hit, you know? That’s completely backwards. Call the bastard out who did this, but don’t try shift blame to the victim.”

Oikawa tries to mentally talk himself into not feeling sparkly, but he doesn’t have time to do that himself because Suga meets him on the couch and squeezes warmth back into his hands. He rubs his knuckles, and gazes at him up close – close enough that Oikawa can count his eyelashes, each and every single one of them, and feel his chest tighten. Oikawa can _see_ him, and he can smell his shitty hand lotion, and he doesn’t want to imagine how long it’s going to be that Suga is gone away to finalize his job for PR to market for Daichi’s company and also do something about that wedding they’re going to have. Oikawa’s not jealous of Daichi. He’s _terrified_.

“Please don’t go to America,” Oikawa says delicately.

“I’ll come back soon,” Suga says. It’s a bit of a lie.

They aren’t expecting someone to knock on the door quite so soon, and the sound of it startles Suga. Oikawa agonizes over the idea that there’s going to be a dog introduced into his life, literally wishes he could be anywhere but where he is, but he can’t very well run away.

He does his best to answer the door, peering from between his eyelashes up into the awkward sun that threatens to blast away what’s left of his retinas. There’s a shadowy figure standing there, and a panting object that he instantly wants to take fifteen steps away from so that it doesn’t breathe on him, much less get fur all over his grimy sweatpants that he’s been living in since he got home from the hospital – except for the sensible outbursts of Suga who reminds him it’s _disgusting_ to wear the same pants for more than three days.

“Is this the home of Oikawa Tooru?” The voice is warm and capturing, and Oikawa blinks delicately.

“You’re looking at him,” he says. Suga snickers like a child would, because he _does_ sound breathless and maybe a little in awe.

“Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

It’s most likely the worst conversation Oikawa has had since his traumatic experience. He feels talkative, which is more than enough as to why he deserves to curse whatever god has decided to hold his tongue. It’s not like he’s even seen the man before getting fond of his voice, which is extremely _smooth_ , by the way, unfairly so. He’s already weak in the knees. He doubts Suga is doing much better. He scoots out of the way of the door and tries to not cringe when he hears paws click against his stained wood floors. There is every sense of regret in the way his shoulders sag.

Now that his newfound best friend has stepped into the dimmer lights of his apartment, Oikawa can sort of see his face. It’s better than just guessing – and he’s way hotter than Oikawa could have ever imagined. The nurse has strong cheek bones, and a nose that looks like it’s broken but has endured worse. He’s tan, _really_ tan – in a way that means it’s all natural. He’s not nearly as tall as Oikawa himself, but he’s thick around and probably buff as hell.

“Ah, Iwaizumi-san, welcome!” Suga says quickly. He reaches for Iwaizumi’s hands and Oikawa hears them clasp together. “I’m Sugawara Koushi, the one currently looking out for Tooru. You spoke to me on the phone the other day.”

“That’s right,” Iwaizumi says. It’s short and abrupt, just the way Oikawa figured he’d act. “You said you were going to America soon and that he’d need someone around while you were gone. I’m guessing he’s the patient over there?”

Oikawa smiles delicately. “I wonder what gave it away. Was it the bandages or the blind staring?” He swears there must be a fly buzzing around.

“Oikawa-san,” Iwaizumi begins, “I’m Iwaizumi Hajime. I’ll be the nurse staying with you while Sugawara-san goes to America. I’ll also be helping you get used to Tohru.”

At the sound of her name, the dog barks.

“I’m Tooru,” Oikawa says. The dog barks again.

“I meant the dog Tohru,” Iwaizumi says. There’s a momentary pause.

“ _I’m Tooru_.”

“The dog is also Tohru.”

“The dog can’t be Tohru. I’m Tooru?”

Double bark.

“The dog is Tohru as well.”

Iwaizumi has stopped sounding patient. The dog barks one more time, and even _she_ sounds irritated she’s had to repeat introducing herself more than once. Oikawa doesn’t know how he feels about sharing his name with an animal. Suga laughs awkwardly between them and claps his hands like this is all very amusing. Oikawa’s not sure he’s having a stare down with anyone, but he does stare at the shapes and objects he can see. There’s a slight throb in his forehead.

Oikawa flashes what he hopes is his best blinding smile. “Well, Suga-chan will fill you in on all those blanks you must have. I have a headache now, so I’ll have to be going!"

If anyone objects to this, they don’t voice it.

 

 

** Thursday, October 9 **

“You must have a good reason to see me since you called in yourself _and_ arrived ten minutes early,” Kiyoko says smoothly without really glossing over things.

“I woke up this morning to a dog in my face and an incredibly attractive man on my coach,” Oikawa tells her fervently. “Do you know I’m afraid of dogs, Kiyoko-chan? I’m not afraid of hot men, _oh God no_ , but I am afraid of this slobbering Collie. I don’t see why it’s necessary I have her.”

Shimizu is right. He _is_ the one who called her on a Thursday morning desperate to get in and away from the home invasion of the polite-gentleman-and-his-less-polite-creature who are aided in the efforts by his own best friend. He’s less afraid of the dog than his memories, no questions asked about that, but he feels like he’s slowly being strangled by the realizing that in more than just a few weeks (if he’s lucky), things won’t just be blurry to him – the world is going to go _black_ like there’s a miniature apocalypse rolling into town. He’s petrified of that, more than anything else in the world, but he’s not entirely sure how he’s supposed to handle everyone stepping around him delicately like they’re afraid he’s glass. Oikawa is very obviously not made of glass. If his head can handle a metal baseball bat, then he can most certainly handle living on his own while Suga is away in America.

Except the issue is, he’s not sure he can manage while Suga is away in America and he wants nothing more than to throw a fit to get him to stay. That’s _selfish_ , he realizes, and probably _manipulative_ , and using his brain damage as a tactic to get Suga to remain at his side for nearly forever is not _appropriate_ , but that’s probably more justified than just letting him go, right? Oikawa wrings his hands nervously and pathetically in his lap. His stitches burn a little bit, but that might be because he’s thinking too hard and way too much for someone who never really had to think much in the beginning anyway. He plays sports and sucks at math. He doesn’t really have time for an existential crisis.

Oikawa nearly laughs at himself at that realization. The truth is, he has all the time in the world to forget who he is and what he looks like because his career is down the drain! Let’s say he _doesn’t_ lose his eyesight entirely. He can barely tell the difference between a plate sat right in front of him and a plate sitting slightly to the left of his hands, much less be forced to decide where he should send a ball that is rapidly approaching his face and to _whom_ it should be a gift to. He severely doubts he’d have the coordination to underhand serve a ball, much less try to jump off the ground and serve that way because at this point in his life, he can barely tell where the floor begins and his feet end without getting horrifically dizzy from looking down too much.

Kiyoko sighs heavily and sets her pen down. “Oikawa-san, I’m sure you know the extent of your injury and what it’s doing.” She doesn’t sound patronizing at least. “However, seeing as how you’re going to eventually lose your sight, I find it necessary you truly consider what your options really are.”

“I know my options,” he says adamantly. “A, I’m the brat everyone wants me to be and I beg Suga to stay with me which effectively ruins his chance for his future job and forces him to break off his engagement. B, I refuse both Suga and the hot nurse and die alone from depression and malnourishment in my own bed. Then there’s C, and that’s not put up a fight but feel absolutely miserable about life no matter what magic pills you administer me. I don’t really have options.”

“Sugawara-san wouldn’t want you to get a guide dog if he didn’t think it were necessary,” Kiyoko reminds him. Her voice is always so gentle and genuine at the same time, and it’s conflicting heavily with the way he wants to feel.

“Suga-chan wouldn’t want this for me if you and Ennoshita-chan didn’t constantly tell him that blindness was a terrifying thing,” Oikawa states. “He’s not the patient. _I_ am. I want to feel in control and—“

“The first step to being in control of your own life would be to admit that with the diagnosis you were given, you are going to need to rely on others,” Kiyoko says. It’s the harshest he’s ever heard her, and the only thing that’s really changed about her is the way she emphasizes certain words. “You can still be in control of your life and accept help.”

Oikawa feels his lips beginning to wobble and squeezes them together tightly. “I don’t want to go blind. I don’t want to not be able to play volleyball. I don’t want to have to rely on someone to make me food. I don’t want a dog to tell me when I can and can’t cross a street. I don’t want to be scared. I don’t want to hear about what happened on the news. I don’t want this injury, and I don’t want these stitches!” He fights himself on pulling them out and settles for letting them tickle him across his fingertips.

They take a moment to let that sink in, to let that honesty mean something. There is more he’s going to lose than he’s ever wanted to allow. He can’t watch Takeru grow up from the noisy seven year old he is into a young man with a basketball scholarship. He can’t watch his sister’s belly swell with more children. He can’t watch his old team play live from the stands, and he can’t watch his own hair turn grey or watch as Kuroo attempts to ask Kenma out again for the sixteenth time this year already. His culinary skills will be gone by December with his luck, and more than anything he wants to find some way to turn back time.

Detective Ushijima wants to find the person who did this to him, understand their motive and their reasoning. Doctor Ennoshita wants to ease his pain as easily as possible without clouding out too much of the life he has to live at this time – if there’s a chance he could remember anything that happened, there can’t be anything there to clog him up. Suga wants to be there for him and comfort him in the only way he can. Hell, even Iwaizumi who was only there for one day and ate dinner with them and was polite wants nothing more than to be something of comfort. Oikawa isn’t ready to let all these things go or let them begin.

There’s a sob beginning in the back of his throat that makes way to his tongue. It’s like the little shrimp one of Oikawa’s private students is friends with. It starts on its toes in a low crouch and pushes up, and up, and up as far as it can to the extension of its fingers to escape a barrier that might be placed down in front of it.  It’s an ungodly noise that Oikawa wishes no one will hear and feels partly embarrassed he’s let it happen in front of Kiyoko, but it’s her job to understand what he’s trying to go through and offer him nothing but stability.

“So let’s talk more about what scares you,” Kiyoko says suddenly. She’s tracing her pen lightly around the edge of her notebook like there’s something inappropriately interesting about having a hysterical ex-volleyball player be frazzled.

“I came here today on my own,” Oikawa finds a piece of loose fabric on his shirt and picks at it. “I don’t want to lose that ability.”

“You brought a walking stick?”

Oikawa ruefully feels alongside the coach where he’s fitting until he finds the smooth pole. “I didn’t want to run into anything on the way.”

“And somehow you avoided the paparazzi?”

“Well, they’re human,” Oikawa explains blankly. He stares at where he supposes the clock is on the wall and listens as it ticks lazily. “They have to sleep sometime. I called a cab so that I could get here. Talking on the phone, though, makes my head hurt.”

That’s information for Ennoshita though, not her, but he tells her anyway because that’s easier than pretending nothing happens. She hums.

“His voice is deep,” Oikawa says. He tries to clear out the film from over his eyes so he can check the time. He’s positive he’s spent most of his appointment sitting in despair while she tries to fit pieces of the puzzle together. “But it’s not like he sounds very old. Did you know? The news is blaming me for what happened. Like _that’s_ fair.”

Kiyoko doesn’t say anything to interrupt the flow of his natural thoughts. Oikawa thinks that’s why he likes her so much. She lets him waste time talking about nonsensical things, judging his movements for signs of anxiety and not for the lack of sight. There’s something comforting in that, that he doesn’t even have to speak but somehow she’ll understand what he’s going on about, or when he does speak, the simple phrases are enough for her to follow and comprehend. He rubs his forehead again miserably. This time he wishes she would ask more questions. He wishes she would give him a prompt.

“Is it the dog that’s bothering you?”

She answers his silent request and he feels like praying. He says, “It’s not quite that. I’m afraid of her, but she’s very kind and I think I’m lucky. Last night, Iwaizumi-san cooked us dinner and it was good. I’m just scared he won’t be much of a conversationalist when Suga leaves.”

“You’re afraid of Iwaizumi-san?” Kiyoko asks. “What for?”

“His voice is deep too,” Oikawa bites his bottom lip to stop himself from going on. He rubs too hard against his stiches and curses a little bit. “But he’s nice. He let me set the table and cut the vegetables. He lets me do things like Suga lets me do things, but less.”

“You don’t like that,” she clarifies with understanding, a certain warmth to her tone that’s dizzying. “You want him to be like Suga. You want him to be Suga, but he’s not that.” She tilts her chin maybe. “Oikawa-san, are you in love with your best friend?”

It’s such a disgusting thought that through the paranoia, Oikawa laughs. And he laughs hard, having to clutch his sides to keep his guts from spilling out like he thinks they will, and he laughs loud enough he thinks his head pounds enough to send him back to the hospital for check-up. Kiyoko waits for him to temper whatever mirth he found from that statement with eyes that are a little too piercing, a little too all knowing.

“What does that have to do with my mental state, Kiyoko-chan?” Oikawa asks pleasantly despite the curl to his tone, to his mouth.

“I was hoping for gossip,” she lies. As if it’s her business.

“Well, there’s nothing in that relationship to dissect,” he states without much remorse, far too cutting to be friendly anymore. He feels like he’s being cross-analyzed, like there’s soon going to start to be wrong answers to questions instead of just his open emotions that she has to pierce down to keep him from going into overdrive with memories and realizations.

Fabric slides across fabric which means she must have crossed her ankles while listening. “You’re being standoffish, more so than usual. The change in your home life makes you uncomfortable because you aren’t in control, and you like being in charge of your own autonomy. Tell me, Oikawa-san, is it the dog that’s throwing you off your game or is it’s something else?”

There’s a glimpse between conversations – _Kuroo’s hands are panicked while they cup his forehead with part of his torn shirt, shaking with hysteria while they try to hold his head together. Oikawa isn’t quite sure where he’s looking, but someone is keening in an ungodly way that has him jumpy and afraid. The lights are too bright, another voice too loud. He thinks of Suga to forget the pain._ – He rubs warmth back into his thighs. Kiyoko keeps her office frigid like she keeps her personality, and she thinks _he’s_ the king of standing as far away from others as possible while being coy. She doesn’t know anything about him than besides what he tells her.

❖

Oikawa meets Kuroo for lunch because he’s stalling and he’s well aware of it. He also hasn’t checked his phone, but that’s mostly because he can’t see the damned letters anymore and there’s a strong chance Suga has called at at least nineteen times in varying displays of concern because he did disappear of the face of the earth that morning to avoid an existential crisis, and the greeting of a potentially half-naked man in his living room and that man’s dog. He drums his fingers against the wood table top anxiously and adjusts his sunglasses.

A couple of months ago he’d be entirely concerned about his appearance. He would have woken up an hour early in the morning to style his hair into perfection and sculpt his eyebrows, but now that’s complicated enough on its own without being partially blind. Oikawa has all but given up the need to not be noticed; it’s inevitable. Covering up bandages meant to keep his skull from cracking open again is near impossible unless he wants hat hair (and he _doesn’t_ ) and his walking stick taps loud enough that the youngest of kids whip their heads around and shout with their sticky mouths that “that volleyball guy is here! You know, the one with the messed up face now!” Oikawa is used to the bluntness of it all. He has a nephew.

Still, it doesn’t stop him from feeling somewhat useless emotionally. Others can find him without even trying, except now when he wants most to slide back into obscurity, it is impossible meanwhile when he was clamoring for a taste of the spotlight, it was impossible to take it away from his _shadow_. Oikawa tries to not stress over this fact. He’s recovering slowly but surely, and that’s more than enough for now given the circumstances and traumatic, overbearing reminder that he’s going to have the ugliest scar in history grafted into his skin.

The good thing about being unable to see is that the other senses begin to go into overdrive, and Oikawa recognizes the thick scent of Kuroo-mixed-with-Kenma’s cologne and hears the lazy drag of Kuroo’s boots against the cheap linoleum diner floor.

“How could you,” he says pleasantly, “possibly have the balls to sneak up on someone who’s _blind_ , Kuroo-puu?”

“You’re not blind yet,” Kuroo hums and slowly sticks his cold fingers against Oikawa’s neck, and hums again delightedly when he jerks away. “What brings the hermit out of his cozy den today?”

Oikawa glares at him. “My undying love for being tormented, apparently.” He pouts. Kuroo laughs instead of apologizing, but it’s familiar and warm and nonthreatening.

“Regardless, it’s good to see you again,” Kuroo says. He’s fond, like when he talks about Kenma, but typically strong in his lackadaisical way. “I thought I was going to have to invite myself over and watch reruns of _Jumong_ loudly on the couch until you re-spawned or some shit.”

There’s a scathing remark on Oikawa’s tongue that he saves until the waitress, a cute little curly haired girl named Natsu, has come and taken their orders. It’s been their routine since college to come to this hidden place not far from one of the many popular shopping districts, and they’ve been ordering the same meal since the dawn of the friendship. Kuroo had been a waiter, and Oikawa had been _trying_ to get his number – until the next day when volleyball practiced and they realized they were on the same team. From there it had been nothing but a fast track express to a crude friendship, and while Oikawa wishes Kuroo would share the softness of Suga, he likes him bitter and smelling slightly of cigarettes. It’s familiar that way.

“I was nearly bludgeoned to death,” Oikawa whines. He traces a nonsensical pattern on their table while Kuroo loudly drops his silverware all over the place. “Show some respect. Aren’t I older?”

“Even if you are, it’s not by much, so don’t complain too much or I’m not buying your meal at all,” Kuroo says sweetly.

“Ballsy!” Oikawa slams his hands on the table. “Ballsy!”

Kuroo snorts unattractively through his nose.

They fall into a simple banter this way that’s reminiscent of _nothing_ that’s happened in recent events. Kuroo doesn’t bring up the attack and Oikawa tempers his own need to try and remember everything that occurred in vibrant colors. It’s not like he’ll remember what colors look like within a few weeks, and Kuroo is that fresh reminder even if it’s packed into an asshole attitude.

But seeing Kuroo even in a glaze is relaxing. With everything feeling so rushed, it’s a nice change to just sit down and have some time to not focus on anything. In comparison to everyone else in his life, Kuroo has yet to seem like someone to coddle him – he didn’t do it between matches when the diva-like attitude would come out, and he isn’t doing it now. When Oikawa starts to blubber when a pause is too long, Kuroo smoothly glides the train thought elsewhere. He’s nothing but a sports man with knowledge in nearly everything although he loathes baseball and basketball. It’s nothing but sports. It’s nothing but old college memories. Because of this, it’s peaceful.

Oikawa brings his hands into his lap while waiting on his food for the mere reminder that he doesn’t need to check his phone. A bunch of missed calls, missed texts, and while it matters that Suga isn’t worrying about him, he doesn’t want to think about the other fake people in his life. The girlfriends he dated in high school who’ve learned about his tragedy who have been texting him _since day_ with faux worried, the boyfriends he messed around with in college because even though he didn’t want a relationship have gathered to praise him for being such a strong man – but it’s not like they genuinely care. He’s their single claim to fame, but he’s used to being used.

It’s something any person learns going into an industry where their names will be planted in flashing lights to attract fans. Half the people in the past are faker than the people of the future, and they’re hard to avoid. Like leeches on a summer’s day, they’ll attach and claim to be friends even though it’s nothing. Oikawa’s not incredibly oblivious, and he knows better. There group of people he trusts he can count on one hand, and he’s even still skeptical of _them_ sometimes. The investigator working his case? He has to care for the sake of putting a man or woman behind bars. Suga and his doting need to help? They’ve known each other since childhood, and he cares because he’s seen Oikawa blow snot bubbles out of his nose for fun. Kuroo and his frivolous attitude and refusal to take anything seriously? He knows Oikawa better than to use him. It’s relieving.

When their meal arrives, Oikawa thanks Natsu for being such an aggressive waitress and Kuroo smiles crookedly.

“Y’know that’s Hinata-kun’s sister, right?” he says as he splits his chopsticks.

“Like the little shrimp would let us forget he had one,” Oikawa says primly. He stares at his plate and the mixture of colors and tries to figure out what goes first. “She’s cute. It’s a shame he’s not.”

Kuroo wheezes around a mouthful of rice. “Oi, you can’t be serious,” he says. “Are you still holding the fact he idolizes Kageyama for the same reason he hates you against him?”

“Of _course_ I am.” Oikawa stabs a renegade piece of chicken from where it’s been avoiding him while he blindly chased it and points it at Kuroo diligently. “What kind of man would I be if I forgave him for such a crime?”

“A nice one, maybe.”

“That’s cruel!”

Somewhere along the way Kuroo regains his composure and _smirks_. “Don’t think I don’t know how you are. You’re fully aware you’re being childish.”

“Kuroo-puu,” Oikawa says sweetly, “I’m not being anymore childish than you are with that whole thing Sawamura thing. Kenma would be scandalized if he knew the things you said about that man’s ass. Not to mention, what will Suga think?”

“He has a nice ass!”

Oikawa snorts something absolutely ghastly and keeps snickering for several minutes. It’s a bit of a childish sense of glee that bubbles in the pit of his stomach knowing that they’re both absolutely hopeless. For the most part it’s a joke. Kuroo doesn’t like Daichi anymore than Oikawa does, but they aren’t entirely pathetic.

Oikawa pushes what he supposes is a piece of rice around his plate anxiously. Sometimes it feels like he’s swimming, and he hasn’t been that great of a swimmer since volleyball camp one year when he somehow managed to convince Suga to sneak out and take a midnight swim with him. In some situations his chest tightens up, and in others his fingers can’t stop shaking long enough for him to smooth down the wrinkles in his clothes. If he’s being entirely honest, he hasn’t been happy with the idea of Suga going to America for the longest time since it was announced. He hasn’t been a _fan_ of Daichi since a couple of months after they’d first met and he’d lost his new personality edge. But Oikawa hasn’t _ever_ been a fair person, and he doubts that he’ll manage to with the way he’s been known to behave since childhood.

“You’re being too quiet,” Kuroo says, catlike reflexes and a strange glint through the filtered light, “and I don’t like that.”

“I’m _thinking_ ,” Oikawa retaliates.

“Yeah,” Kuroo says, “I don’t like that either.”

His chopstick stutters along the cheap plate and makes a strange noise like an animal dying. He parts his lips maybe to speak, maybe to scream, but shovels the lone rice in instead like that’s reason enough to put a halt to the groove of where this conversation is going. Oikawa hates it when Kuroo’s right about anything, and it’s terrifying how accurate Kuroo can pinpoint him even when he’s having his good days. The paparazzi is frightening, but the duo of felines is somewhat more lethal. It’s like Kuroo doesn’t blink. He doesn’t miss anything – not a toss, not a tear, and definitely not some poignant poetic bullshit about how Oikawa wishes he could evaporate into thin air.

Kuroo’s annoying. He’s kind, though, and only hums “Komm S _ü_ sser Tod” loudly because Oikawa dear no matter how much he rejects it.

Kuroo sits up and the movement causes the cushion on his seat to make _that_ sound, and Oikawa can’t help the bubbly laughter that builds up in his stomach, then on his mouth, and turns him into that childish middle school boy with potty humor he never allowed himself to be. Prestige came with money, and Oikawa’s never been poor. At his insistence they pay and leave before Kuroo tries to begin his stage career then and there with how fond he loves to perform in front of anyone willing to listen.

There are about _four_ things people get used to once they’re famous. The first thing is that people are going to stare, food dangling out of their mouths while they try to pinpoint exactly _who_ it is they’re seeing. After that, they’re going to pat the friend sitting next to them and frantically point while trying to make it seem like it’s not a big deal. One of them is going to muster the courage to stop the alleged famous person for a group photo, and then they’re going to have to giddily forget to move out of the way while they check to make sure their photo turned out great and no one ended up cross-eyed or on their bad side. Of course, everyone in human civilization has a different approach to taking pictures, and if Oikawa remembered.

Fans do become old after a while, overexcited screaming and gasping and compliment and all. Oikawa is a pretty boy and has been since high school, so it’s not like being fawned over is anything entirely new. Someone touches his shoulder (– _he grips him roughly by the forearm_ —), there’s an overly excited voice pitched up a couple of octaves (–“ _Oikawa-san! Please take a picture with me!”_ —), and then he’s reminded of what it’s like to decline and forgets.

❖

Tohru pushes her wet snout against his knee and shuffles vaguely at his side, and it’s everything he hates in life and more. She’s earnestly concerned, demanding some sort of consolidation she’s doing his job, but he doesn’t _want_ to move.

“Tooru, open the door!”

She doesn’t bark this time, probably preoccupied with how she’s being paid in treats to care, and presses her fur into the creases of his skin where he’s trying to avoid touch. He hates her. He hates the softness of her fur and the soothing feeling of her breath fanning out over his gooseflesh, and just how damn good she is at being comforting. He lightly digs his fingers into shoulder harder than what he’s been doing and feels real.

“Please open the door!” Suga’s voice is muffled and wet sounding.

Oikawa opens his eyes momentarily and everything flashes white for so long he thinks he’s died. The bathroom lights flicker continuously like they’ve always done. It’s too good to be true. Someone out there is looking out for him and they shouldn’t be, because it’s too much too soon and he doesn’t like it, not even remotely, because it’s suffocating. Tohru licks patiently at his skin, an occasional lap of her giant tongue, and flicks her ears.

“—fine,” he mutters. He burrows his mouth against his knees.

“Tooru, please!” Suga is insistent like he is, and Oikawa smiles. “I just want to know what happened. You don’t have to go through much detail, but please tell me what happened!”

Slick skin against slick tile slides down until he’s pressing his nose against the fluffy towels they use. Tohru presses up right beside him because it’s apparently what she does when she wants to help, and is nothing more than a furnace he wishes he could turn off. Fur is hot, he decides, and he doesn’t like it long or thick. He doesn’t like it much at all.

He doesn’t like much of anything anymore.

 

 

** Friday, October 10 **

Iwaizumi stares at him, and Oikawa stares back.

The punishment is drawn out, uncomfortably so. Oikawa _does_ feel bad for his behavior. He truly regrets everything he’s done. Honestly, isn’t going blind so much worse of a punishment than anything anyone else could possibly offer? Yet Iwaizumi doesn’t look like he’s even considering budging judging from the hard line of his mouth and the premature wrinkles he’s engraving into his forehead more out of thought than annoyance.

“Is that GOCE?” Oikawa asks cautiously. Iwaizumi smells good, like manly things, but it isn’t enough of an icebreaker in the end.

Oikawa faintly wonders if this is what silent treatment is like. It’s so much more effective than yelling or crying which has both happened within the early morning hours when people finally decided he was grown enough and stable enough to be held accountable. Dealing with Suga was the worst feeling in the entire planet, like someone had dropped a dumbbell on his stomach or kicked him in the balls – or maybe both at once. Kuroo’s fury was something alike to Coach’s but peppered more with lack of control, because they were nothing more than a gaggle of embarrassing emotions present more in toddlers than adults. Oikawa touches his forehead faintly and is grunted at in response. He puts his hands in his lap like a good kid would.

Iwaizumi is his nurse and not the person who needs to be messing with his emotional state, yet here they are at the dinner table Oikawa with all his sins laid bare.

“I’ll change the gauze, looks like you bled through,” Iwaizumi says huskily, and holds up both hands before grabbing Oikawa’s chin to get a better look.

“Oh.”

“You’ve got a big forehead,” he adds and promptly slinks off to where the fuck ever.

Oikawa doesn’t know whether to laugh or feel miserable. What a roundabout insult yet clear reference to the number Oikawa had done to his hair the night before. What once had been long and luxurious is now crooked and whisked awkwardly just like it had been in middle school, barely falling down over his hairline and leaving most of his _big forehead_ on display for the world to see and the media to criticize. He tugs at what’s left of his bangs nervously and tries to not let his breakdown end up like Howl’s.

It’s not too early in the morning yet he still feels groggy and uncomfortable. Iwaizumi has reminded him that as bad as he feels, Suga’s probably feeling like he’s hungover because _he_ stayed up even later – and while it’s pitting an unfair circumstance against another, Oikawa takes the blame card like he’s supposed to and feels flagged. Kiyoko is probably just waiting to get her hands on him the next time she sees him and ask him a million questions, like maybe where his heart went or if it shriveled or why he’s incapable of taking someone else’s emotions into consideration besides just his own. The abyss of me!-me!-me! has swallowed him up entirely.

“I’m not a hair dresser,” Iwaizumi begins unapologetically, “but I can fix whatever the hell you tried to do to your hair.”

“I was aiming for unrecognizable,” Oikawa says delicately.

“You accomplished two-year old tantrum instead,” Iwaizumi says harshly.

Oikawa prides himself in knowing when to let himself take the offhanded comments about his desired need to lash out, more at himself than others in most circumstances, so he doesn’t try to argue that fact and instead chooses to drag his nail across the tabletop miserably. When Iwaizumi needs him to raise his head he does, and when Iwaizumi soothingly unwraps the nasty white bandage from his head to replace it with a new one, he doesn’t complain that it’s sore and it _hurts_ to jerk like that – because Iwaizumi is a nurse and knows what he’s doing.

He feels uniquely tiny then and there, bare faced with puffy eyes and a _zit_ from uncontrollable nerves large on his chin, but he allows himself this. Oikawa _does_ flinch when the gauze pulls against his eyebrow hairs, and he _does_ whine when cold air touches his stitches, and he _does_ cry when Iwaizumi cleans around the cut (sometime during the finalization of hiring him, it was stated he was a home health nurse who didn’t mind wound care) because it _burns_ , damn it. Oikawa doesn’t expect Iwaizumi to apologize for it, so when he does, he feels confused and muddled. Tohru licks at his ankle the entire time and it takes all his self-control not to wiggle because it tickles.

Seeing now is like trying to look at someone through his eyelashes, and it hurts his head to focus too much but he _wants_ to see. Iwaizumi makes a face at the state of Oikawa’s face only swelled up more and tight from the fading bruising like he can’t believe something would happen, but also like he’s kind of disgusted by it. Oikawa has to wonder if it’s maybe because he hasn’t showered in probably _weeks_ for fear of getting his bandages wet.

Accessible to cleanliness through baths, however, Oikawa hasn’t allowed himself to _smell_ like he hasn’t touched soap in decades.

“I’m sorry,” Oikawa says. His greasy hair is disgusting, and dry-shampoo can only do wonders for so long. His hair is gross enough that he can push his hands up into his roots and _it’ll stay there like gel_.

“I’ve touched worse,” Iwaizumi says kindly. Oikawa shivers at that thought. “I can wash it though, if it bothers you.”

Oikawa fumbles around his forehead avoiding contact with the painful places. “I feel forehead zits,” he agonizes, “so if you’d be okay with it.”

Iwaizumi grunts. Oikawa supposes that’s a good thing.

“Let me put the gauze over your stitches first and then I’ll wash your hair,” Iwaizumi says, “in the sink.” He reaches into the box he’d brought to the table earlier and filters through it to find what he needs. He’s surprisingly gentle.

Oikawa has to bite his lip and try to not scrunch up his forehead at how fast things are moving that he can’t see, and not flinching is a difficult thing to do. But Iwaizumi apparently hums like he works, and Tohru loves licking so there’s nothing not soothing about things that are going on. The gauze is cold, and Iwaizumi does have to push down firmly which is mean. Oikawa cries for at least thirty seconds. Whenever he was a kid, he’d get candy for being good in the doctor’s office. It looks like he made a mistake expecting that here.

Iwaizumi gets up and begins rustling around to put things away, and sanitize. Oikawa runs his finger around his new gauze for a while. It’s soothing not having to go see Ennoshita, because small offices are unnerving for a number of reasons and it’s always embarrassing to be seen afterwards with snot and children gazing at him like he’s hanging the moon. Tohru pushes her head against his hand. He scratches behind her ears because he supposes that’s what one does for dogs, and she seems satisfied with that anyway like she’s soothed as well.

“I’m kind of surprised she likes you,” Iwaizumi cuts in from somewhere in the kitchen.

“Why’s that?” Oikawa asks.

There’s a small pause. “She doesn’t like children,” comes the response.

It’s a joke, and Oikawa understands it’s a joke but he can’t help the gasp that comes from deep in his chest, almost like a wheeze, that has him struggling to stand up. Tohru pushes her face against the side of his leg, and he narrowly misses banging his knee against the table leg because the world spins momentarily. She grunts too, like master like pet he guesses. Oikawa blindly stumbles his way into the kitchen despite being familiar with the set up. He doesn’t hit a wall and he doesn’t crash into the counter, but he _does_ reach out in front of himself like he promised he wouldn’t do because he wasn’t going to be like a grandfather. It’s a pride thing more than anything.

“I,” Oikawa huffs punctuated with a short stomp of his foot, “am _not_ a child.” Yet even as he says it, he’s clamoring on top of the cabinets near the sink so he can dunk his head in whenever Iwaizumi is ready to take on the disgusting mop that’s supposed to be his hair.

There’s a soft mumble of “Oh, _shampoo_ ” before Iwaizumi disappears from existence for a couple of minutes. It’s a strangely lonely feeling even though it’s Oikawa’s own kitchen, but he hasn’t necessarily enjoyed being alone – nor did he really think anybody trusted him by himself at the moment. Really, it’s not that he _tried_ to scare anyone. And he’s ready to apologize for it, because lashing out at a regular person who just wanted their picture taken with him isn’t really fair. It just drew more attention to the situation, which resulted in more texts, which resulted in a pissed Coach calling him, and a frustrated Kuroo because he still can’t do anything.

Oikawa stares miserably at the light fixture ahead and doesn’t let himself drown in pity for too long. There’s a plus to all this that he’s learned. He should never, ever go out in public again without sunglasses and a big hat (because stars in the West do that and apparently it works for them) and he should also tell someone who’s staying with him where he’s going so he doesn’t get worried texts in the middle of being dragged back to his apartment by Kuroo. He’s glad that Kuroo wasn’t mad at _him_ , but he doesn’t like what happened.

After that, he doesn’t really remember what happened. He remembers being flustered and wanting to hide, but he’d never meant to make Suga cry. If anything, he really just wanted to do something to change himself. Like a butterfly. Hide a few years, pop out brand new and beautiful again with wings and an attraction of those around him. Oikawa pulls his hands over his eyes and glares at the light that peeks through his fingers.

“That’s debatable,” Iwaizumi returns evenly once he’s returned with Oikawa’s smelly bottles of expensive cleanser. He turns on the faucet and adjusts the handle so the water will be a little warm. “So, why’d you cut your hair?”

Oikawa bites the inside of his cheek and debates the answer. He could lie, but it’s not like it would do him any good. Someone would realize he’s a big fat baby and call him out on it. If he tells the truth, he doesn’t even really have to explain it. Iwaizumi is going to have to get close to him, he knows this, but he’s still hesitant about it.

“Think of it as my own identifying factor,” he says slowly. He picks at the edge of his shorts lamely. “On the court, you could find me by my number or my knee. But outside of that – people usually recognized the hair.”

“Why the short fringe?” Iwaizumi pats the counter so Oikawa eases his way onto his back and then wiggles backwards like a worm. Iwaizumi gently touches his forehead. “European style isn’t popular here anymore.”

His cheeks burn. “Well, I – I’m not a hairdresser, Iwa-chan!” He feels scandalized and ridiculous.

The feel of Iwaizumi’s hands in his hair is nice and soothing. If there are tangles, Iwaizumi doesn’t complain and Oikawa doesn’t cry whenever they get caught and pull at his scalp. There’s something methodical about being taken care of. The rolling of soothing fingers against the root of his hair, the smell of perfumed shampoo taking away the haven’t-washed-hair-smell that’s been lingering since he went to the hospital; it reminds Oikawa of what it’s like to be functional, and he misses it more than is fair.

“Don’t call me that,” Iwa-chan says. There’s not much of a fight in his voice. He brushes bubbles away from Oikawa’s forehead tenderly and invites the water closer to swirl the mess down the drain.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa repeats automatically. He smiles despite himself and immediately covers it up with his fingers. “Iwa-chan, are you going to be my friend?”

“Tohru is going to be your friend.”

“Ahh, but can’t Iwa-chan also be my friend?”

Iwaizumi _tugs_ on whatever is left of his bangs, and Oikawa squawks. He takes to shampooing another time because hair grease is _gross_ and pretty faces deserve better, or so that’s what Oikawa imagines he’s doing it for.

“I don’t make friends with brats,” Iwaizumi Hajime says in probably the most rehearsed voice ever, so rehearsed that television talk hosts are probably jealous of such capable banter. “And that’s kind of what you are. A brat.”

“Mmmm, you hurt me.”

Oikawa decides he likes being clean. He likes Iwaizumi taking time out of his day to wash his hair even if it is his job now, and he likes the way that when he sits up, Iwaizumi stays by him for a moment to make sure he’s steady before completely _ignoring_ him to play with Tohru who must be a better companion. It makes Oikawa feel soft looking at it. Iwaizumi seems really fond of her with the way he shakes her fur around, and she nuzzles her giant nose into his face every chance she gets and just _breathes_ on him all fond and like. Gingerly, he slides down to join them on the tile floor and reaches out to pet her. Unlike the poodle that had attacked him, she’s kind and licks his palm and immediately rushes over to steal the attention away. Oikawa likes her.

And when he glances up through his lashes and catches Iwaizumi looking at him with a sort of questioning-but-fond expression, his chest tightens considerably. It’s like being human again.

**Author's Note:**

> i know i hurt you but i know there's a chance i probably made you laugh so tell me about at my inbox at my tumblr with a new url at oinkwa


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